House of Skin

Dear Eddy,

Once we were back on the road, I felt a lot safer. Remember how it started to rain when we hit the highway again? Practically a downpour.

I love storms.

I love driving in them, sleeping in them, fucking in them.

We figured it would be awhile before anyone looked in the trunk of my car and found that guy. Not that it mattered. That car wasn’t registered in my name, anyway. It was just a rental. Too bad about that guy. He was so happy to help a woman in distress. Oh, well. Things happen, I guess.

The idea of the two of us cruising around together was like a dream come true for me. You have no idea how often I thought about that. The destination was never set in my mind. In my dreams, I only saw us driving away together, towards the future. Our future. As long as were together, it never mattered to me where we ended up.

The road was practically deserted. There were a few trucks, but not much else. The rain and the wind had scared all the lambs back into their holes. But that was okay. We owned the road that night of nights and what else really mattered? Just the two of us and miles and miles of emptiness.

It wasn’t too long after we’d passed that turn off for Petaluma that you saw the lights behind us. Those flashing red lights. What a thrill that gave me. We had already discussed what to do in such a situation. You thought of everything, didn’t you?

“You know what to do,” you said.

And I did.

There was a rest stop ahead and you turned off into it. We were in luck: it was deserted. Not a soul in sight and given the conditions, it was unlikely anyone would show up. We pulled into the empty lot and you shut the engine off. The cop—a CHP trooper—slid in behind us, his lights flashing. He sat there for the longest time before coming over. Why do they always do that? Just sit and sit before coming over?

Finally, he approached us. He was a short man, solidly built. Gray hair. Tired-looking, though, as if he hadn’t slept in some time.

He played a flashlight in through your window.

“In a hurry?” he asked.

“Yeah… my wife’s hurt. There was an accident.”

I moaned and acted woozy. He put the light on me and I made sure he saw the blood all over me.

“Christ, what happened?” He came around to my side of the car and opened the door. He checked me over real quick, looking for wounds.

“I better call a—”

His words died on his tongue. He must’ve seen a glint of steel as my razor opened his throat. Then he stumbled back, gagging on his own blood. His fingers were trying to find his gun, but they weren’t fast enough.

Not as fast as the razor. By the time he gave his last breath, the rain was hammering down again. “We better make tracks,” you said. I knew you were right and we did. No doubt he’d already called in our plate number.

We ran.

Yours,

Cherry